Gillian Galbraith: No Sorrow To Die

The fourth book in the Alice Rice Mystery series, 2010

Maureen Allison

Colin Browning

Douglas Edington

Lesmoir Edington

Robert Galbraith

Daisy Galbraith

Diana Griffiths

Jinty Kerr

Roger Orr

Dr Sandra Smith

Aidan O’Neill

Any errors in the text are my own.

Saturday night

‘I am doing nothing wrong,’ Heather Brodie told herself, trying to silence the unwelcome voice in her head which was busy telling her that she certainly was − doing something shameful, in fact. A few bars of ‘Jerusalem’, hummed loudly, finally smothered it.

Craning towards the mirror she began to apply her lipstick, conscious, as she did so, of every flaw and imperfection on her careworn, middle-aged face. True, the blue of the irises was as deep as ever, but crows-feet had begun to clamber across her cheekbones and her brow was no longer smooth, one corrugated fold following another like sand on a beach at low tide. She smiled humourlessly at her own reflection, and as she did so taut lines appeared on either side of her mouth, extending from nose to chin, multiplying when the smile widened and producing a dimple on the left. An eyelash caught in the corner of her eye distracted her, making her blink convulsively until, with a fingertip, she was able to remove it. Relieved, she turned her attention back to her lips, dabbing them with a paper hankie to remove the outer layer of scarlet gloss in an attempt to make herself look less predatory, less like a hawk.

‘Life must go on.’ Everybody said it, and she could only agree. When younger, greener, she had thought that the cliché had a pitiless ring to it, the mantra of a ruthless survivor, the living sloughing off illness and death in their determination to kick their heels and enjoy the remainder of their allotted span. But, after nearly half a century on this earth, she knew better, understood the saying only too well. Now she positively embraced it.

The wardrobe door was already open and she looked inside, fingering the material of the black dress that she had decided to wear, then took the soft garment out. She had planned ahead, no goodbyes were now required, she had attended to them before she had begun to get ready. Previous experience had taught her that the spring in her step, never mind the warm scent of her perfumed body, was likely to disturb him, to provoke some kind of incoherent fury or, worse still, deeper withdrawal. So she stepped out of the front door as quietly as she was able, the icy air tingling her tender cheeks, and pulled it tight closed behind her.

The decision to walk had been a good one, she decided. The sound of her heels clicking on the pavement made her feel alive, part of the human race once more, and she studied the other pedestrians as they ambled along, taking in their clothes and imagining their destinations. None of them, she thought, were likely to be as delightful, as exhilarating as her own. The farther she got from the hushed interior of her house in India Street, with its stale air and faded colours, the more she allowed the excitement rising in her to grow unchecked until she felt herself almost crackling with energy, as if champagne had been transfused into her veins. She was off the leash again, and must make full use of her freedom.

Both Heather Brodie and her lover knew that it was foolish to choose a restaurant on Dublin Street for their illicit rendezvous, but neither had been able to resist the charms of Il Gattopardo . Edinburgh might be a capital city, but it was a small one, an intimate one, one where words travelled easily and secrets were seldom kept. The place remained little more than a series of interlinked villages, and scandalous tales, usually of infidelity or embezzlement, knew no boundaries; they passed from Bruntsfield to Ravelston, Corstorphine to Comely Bank as easily as the air itself. Nowhere was completely safe.

But standing under a street-light in the marrow-chilling cold outside the eating house as one leaden minute piled on another, exposed to the gaze of every passer-by, she regretted the recklessness of their choice. And after a further fifteen minutes of waiting she no longer met the eyes of anyone, her gaze fixed steadfastly on the pavement, afraid that she might again be confronted by a former colleague or acquaintance, a playful smile on their lips as they cocked a quizzical eyebrow at her.

She pushed a strand of damp hair off her forehead and looked up the hill, scanning the horizon, her eyes coming to rest on the red Dumfries sandstone of the National Portrait Gallery. But she was blind to its gothic grandeur; one thing only was now on her mind. Where the hell was he? She inspected her watch − seven-twenty − and felt a surge of desperate, impotent anger. They had agreed on seven, had agreed on Il Gattopardo and, crucially, that they would meet outside it. He must know how exposed she would be, waiting for him on the street, attracting curious glances, vulnerable to the cruel winter weather.

Someone tapped her arm and she spun round, her anger already forgotten, expecting to look into his dark eyes, but instead found herself face to face with Miss Guild’s thick spectacles and whiskery chin. The old school-mistress’s pleasure on bumping into a former pupil was clear from her broad, buck-toothed smile.

‘Hevver…’ she hesitated briefly, ‘Hevver Burns!’ she exclaimed, triumphant at having remembered the elusive name.

‘Heather Brodie, now,’ her ex-pupil corrected irritably, glancing over the old lady’s shoulder in search of the man, not bothering to hide her preoccupation.

‘So, Hevver, you married. And you’re as lovely as ever. Did you continue with your drama course? I’ve never forgotten your Ophelia, you were a star…’

Before their conversation could go any further, unseen clouds in the black, starless sky above them burst, unleashing a deluge, and raindrops as large as cherries began to fall on their heads, splattering on the ground round about them. In seconds they were both drenched, tiny rivulets forming on the old teacher’s spectacles and running down her cheeks. Fumbling ineffectually with a folded polythene rain-hat, she mumbled, ‘I must be off, dear. I’m not dressed for vis kind of wevver!’ and, like an anxious duck, she waddled speedily down Dublin Street, her flat feet splashing from side to side on the streaming pavement.

Heather Brodie ran down the steps to Il Gattopardo and pushed open its door. She was certain that he would not be inside, but she had to have shelter, both from any more prying eyes and the cold rain. She wandered into the dining area and, absentmindedly, put a finger to her cheek to wipe away another drip. Her mascara had mingled with the water, so she would be looking a fright.

As she became accustomed to the subdued lighting, a flickering candle on each table, she noticed a familiar figure sitting in a corner, hunched over a menu and nursing a beer glass in his left hand.

‘Let him not see me yet’ she prayed, embarrassed by her wet, flattened hair and besmirched eyes, now hunting frantically for a sign to the toilets, and quickly spotting it. Hastily, she threaded her way between the tables heading for the Donne , but her lover caught sight of her and immediately began to wave, semaphoring his presence. When she did not respond, he shouted in ever-increasing volume, ‘Heather! Heather! I’m over here’, broadcasting to the world her arrival, and with it his own.